C.S. Lewis wrote this poem for his close friend Charles Williams, who died 69 years ago on May 15: Your death blows a strange bugle call, friend, and all is hard To see plainly or record truly. The new light imposes change, Re-adjusts all a life-landscape as it thrusts down its probe from the sky, To create shadows, to reveal waters, to erect hills and deepen glens. The slant alters. I can’t see the old contours. It’s a larger world Than I once thought it. I wince, caught in the bleak air that blows on the ridge. Is it the first sting of a great winter, the world-waning? Or the cold air of spring? A hard question and worth talking a whole night on. But with whom? Of whom now can I ask guidance? With what friend concerning your death Is it worth while to exchange thoughts unless–oh, unless it were you?
Posted on: Tue, 20 May 2014 14:35:52 +0000